


but i leave in my heart

by Resamille



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Blood, Body Horror, Injury, IwaOi Horror Week, Kinda, M/M, Magic, Rituals, Summoning, Temporary Character Death, maybe???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 20:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16436465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: They had not yet vowed 'til death do us part.So: death cannot stop him.





	but i leave in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Iwaoi horror week 2018 except I'm a busy motherfucker and had an entire story planned out incorporating all 7 prompts with a plot and EVERYTHING but then I only wrote for day 1 nice job me   
> nailed it  
> anyway i liked it so take it uwu
> 
> lmk if anything else should be tagged
> 
> insp from cassie clare's description of the angel raziel. or maybe it's just cassandra jean's depiction of them. i'm not entirely sure tbh. title from organs by of monsters and men.

Oikawa Tooru is many things.

Among them: a once-avid volleyball player, before his knee injury got worse two years into playing on a university team; a skeptic and and scientist all at once; proud, observant, manipulative, a brat, and a million other things that Iwaizumi used to call him.

Right now, though, he's alone.

From his birth, Oikawa Tooru has always had Iwaizumi Hajime by his side. They've grown up together, childhood to university to what came after. They've played and fought and teased and kissed. Their lives have been undeniably intertwined, right from the beginning. Whatever is out there, be it aliens or a god—they _meant_ for Oikawa and Iwaizumi to be together.

So why—

Why is Iwaizumi _gone_?

Why did his life slip away in the quiet of the night, rhythmic beats fading to a single drawn-out scream of a machine? Why did his breath dry on his lips while Oikawa's tears wet his skin, begging, _begging_ , for him to just open his eyes? Why were his lips twisted into that faint, fond smile at the visitation, the one he'd kept private for Oikawa, right up until the moment his body was laid into the ground?

They were supposed to be together, until they grew old and grumpy (grump _ier_ , in Iwaizumi's case), live out their days in simple bliss, enraptured in each others' love, content to share themselves wholly and entirely with each other until death eventually came for them. Many, many, years from now.

It wasn't supposed to be so soon. There were so many things they were still planning to do, like that fucking little box that Iwaizumi _thinks_ he'd managed to hide from Oikawa, except that Oikawa is a nosy little shit and found it within a few days of Iwaizumi keeping it in the apartment.

They had _plans_. They had _years_. They had _each other_.

Not anymore.

Oikawa almost wishes he could grieve like a normal fucking person. Hanamaki had commended him, tentatively, on how composed Oikawa was at the funeral. Like he'd expected Oikawa to be a mess, because, if he's honest, when it comes to Iwaizumi, Oikawa always _is_ a mess. Oikawa had just sniffled and smiled weakly at him, pretended he didn't have a handful of Iwaizumi's grave dirt stuffed into his pocket and a vial of blood hidden in his bedroom closet.

Oikawa's always believed that a lot of things in life are stepping stones, that there's always a culmination, somewhere at the end. Until recently, he'd assumed that his life was leading up to his wedding day, when he'd be stepping into some new stage of happiness. Now, though, he thinks that maybe this is it: skin caked with a stranger's blood, grave dirt packed under his fingernails, bags under his eyes from the nights he's slept alone.

Either way, today ends with Iwaizumi.

He's spent over a month carefully planning, a month of faking that Iwaizumi is truly dead, a month going through the motions of burying the love of his life knowing full well how exactly he intends to bring him back. Oikawa would personally go to the depths of hell to drag his Iwaizumi back to him. Thankfully, that doesn't seem to be necessary.

He'll just have someone else do it for him.

Standing at the edge of the runed circle he's spent the last two hours carefully drawing, Oikawa reaches for the pocket knife—Iwaizumi's—he has tucked into his pocket. His gaze wanders, calculating and confirming, over the circle. He's checked everything at least twice at this point, but one can never be too careful with supernatural beings. They're unpredictable, and Oikawa would prefer not to lose his bargaining chip.

He flicks open the knife, takes a deep breath, and cuts neatly into the meat of his own palm on his opposite hand. Eagerly, the blood drips down onto the circle. Oikawa closes his eyes and starts reciting the summoning words, practiced with the same intensity he'd once practiced on the volleyball court with Iwaizumi as his partner.

There's a _whoosh_ of air around him as he finishes, and light sears against his eyes even though his eyelids. He feels the burn of the creature's presence, tingling across his skin and skittering over his bones like its reaching through him to claw at his organs. He resists the urge to shudder.

“I have summoned you,” Oikawa starts out, voice raspy and weak in comparison to the oppressive air around him. “You must grant my favor.”

In response, Oikawa hears a sound like rusting metal grating against itself, like the scrape of tools over exposed bone, the splinter of ancient magic and crumpling of human flesh. Something wet drips past Oikawa's lips and on the side of his neck, droplets patting onto his shoulders and off his chin. There's a sudden pressure at the center of his forehead, right between his eyes where the light seems to be wearing away at his eyelids.

Eventually, the noise evolves into words: “Mortal. What isss it you dessssire?”

Oikawa coughs, and feels something wet and grotesque crawl up his throat. It bubbles out from between his lips, and he spits the thick taste of blood from his mouth before he can manage to talk again. “Bring Iwaizumi Hajime back to life.”

“Hisss sssoul is gone from thissss world,” the thing replies, voice still sounding like shattering bone and crushed steel. “Would you asssk for hissss life, at the cossst of your own? You can't sssstand my pressssence for very long. If I had to sssay, only a few more ssssecondssss.”

“Bring him _back_ ,” Oikawa chokes out.

“Mortalssssss... Alwayss ssso willing to sssacrifice themssselvesss... Isss he worth it?”

Oikawa fights every nerve of his body that tells him to run, and instead, he opens his eyes.

His eyelids peel up grudgingly, resistant to that which they must know will harm him. All the same, Oikawa lets his gaze settle on the being in the center of the circle.

It has the general shape of a human: two legs, a torso, arms, a head.

Except the legs are bent and kinked. It has the joints of an animal, backwards and unnatural for the pale flesh that covers the limbs. Either that, or they are very, very broken.

The torso, rising from slim hips, is bare. There's no belly button on the creature's stomach, and its skin is too-smooth, like a mannequin's, yet underneath the thin covering, _things_ writhe and tangle. Oikawa sees the movement of insects underneath an unblemished body.

And the arms—too many. Some are stacked on top of each other, erupting from the same mass of imagined shoulder joint, somewhere along the creature's side. Others are twitching uselessly, uncontrollable dead weight. Yet others are blackened, long dead, and blood and pus and infection oozes from the joints where they pull at the being's skin, brush against other limbs.

Finally, the head is largely featureless. There's no nose, not even the remnants of cartilage, and instead of eyes there are gaping sockets, flesh ripped and torn around the holes. There are lips, yes, but they're sewn shut, thick, bloody cord stitching the thing's mouth closed.

All this, and still: the wings. They arch up high enough to brush against Oikawa's ceiling. The shape of them is intimidating, all-encompassing. Each feather, gold and spotless, holds a single eye. There are a thousand colors, ranging from brown to green to amber to grey. Some are bloodshot, leaking tears or blood or something else that drips down the full length of the wings and onto the floor where it sizzles through the hardwood.

Oikawa called for something. He called, and a Goddamn _angel_ answered.

He feels something slide over his cheeks. He highly doubts it's water.

“Look at me,” Oikawa spits. His words gurgle from his lungs, filled with something vile. “And tell me that he's not worth it.”

The creature seems to regard him for a moment. “Very well.” Oikawa hears a crash from somewhere else in the apartment. “It isss done.”

Oikawa blinks away the fluid clouding his vision. He'd expected more bargaining, more fight. “T—that's it?”

“You are interesssting, Mortal,” the angel tells him. “I will take my payment, now.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to speak, but instead, he screams. His lungs burn, tightening around the fire of pain, and the liquid building in him gushes from his lips, spilling across his chest. His vision swims—flashes of blood and torn limbs and sharp teeth and a black heart, beating—and Oikawa stumbles back from the circle.

He trips over his own useless legs, collapsing in a heap of limbs and blood and agony onto the floor. The angel's many-eyed wings watch him, impassively blinking as Oikawa writhes against the anguish.

The pain behind his eyelids turns to the beat of a drum, throbbing and rhythmic and consuming. It eats away at him, at his mind and motive and memory, and Oikawa does nothing to stop it. There's nothing he _can_ do to stop it.

His body twitches, remnants of his human existence present in the weak beat of his heart and the flutter of his eyelashes as he loses himself to the pain, the hunger, the dance of the drums in his head.

When he wakes, he's covered in his own dried blood, feeling weak and nauseous, and Iwaizumi is crouching over him, concern written into his expression. Oikawa lets his eyes close, listens to the faint thrum of music, and trusts Iwaizumi to take care of him.

It doesn't matter, what it's cost, as long as he's not alone anymore. As long as Iwaizumi is here.

 


End file.
